Wings
by jojospn
Summary: MAJOR SPOILERS for the season 12 finale. Death was never final for the Winchesters. He couldn't be the exception. But the charred outline of those wings told a different story.


**A/N: Hi, guys! It's been a while, I know. I've kind of discovered yet a new fandom, _Rick and Morty_ (absolutely hilarious, I highly recommend it!) and have been kind of neglecting _Supernatural._ But that season finale... holy crap! And so I decided to write this one shot based on those final minutes when the shit really hit the fan. I know you probably all saw this but just in case, MAJOR SPOILER ALERT for the finale. I hope you enjoy!**

 **Wings**

It all happens so quickly, at first he doesn't even register what has happened.

One moment, Cas appears from the inter dimensional portal, a look of relief on his face: the next, he is gasping in pained horror as an eerie glow emits from his features. In seconds, he is lying on the ground as Lucifer smirks, holding the blood stained angel blade in his hands as if it were a trophy. "That was fun," with a casual shrug of his shoulders. Dean can only watch, horror and grief overwhelming his senses as the surviving angel rambles on ("seriously, guys, points for trying..."), his knees threatening to buckle beneath him. He doesn't want to give Lucifer the satisfaction of seeing him in this state, and he most certainly doesn't want to lose it before Sam, who is threatening to break down himself. Always the big brother first. But he _certainly_ doesn't have any smartass remarks of his own either. His best friend, his _family,_ is lying dead right before him. _I win._

He tries to reassure himself that this isn't permanent. He is, after all, an honorary Winchester, and Winchesters never stay dead. Hell, Cas himself never seems to stay gone. He'd exploded before his very eyes that day in Stull, only to return a few hours later. He'd been stabbed by reapers, trapped in Purgatory, possessed by Leviathan. Every possible scenario, and yet he'd always come back. Good, faithful Castiel, always there, that third member of Team Free Will. This time is no exception, right?

But then there's the wings.

He's never seen the charred outline of outstretched wings whenever Cas has met of his many untimely deaths. It has been his constant reassurance. No wings, an angel isn't really dead until you see those wings. Sure, it looks bad, but it isn't something they can't fix, right? Dean glances over to Sam, but he sees no such promise of hope, only grief. And yet there is no time to mourn. He can only watch helplessly as Mary runs from the cabin, brass knuckles in hand, as she charges bravely (or, perhaps, brazenly) towards Lucifer. No time to grieve as he watches his mother tackle the angel, the bloodied blade dropping to the ground inches from his best friend's body. And then the two are just _gone,_ sucked into that fucking tear. _She's gone too. We just got her back and now she's gone._ It's all so overwhelming, Dean can do nothing but stare at the space where only moments ago Lucifer and his mom had been standing before him. _Oh, god. Not now. Not after I already lost..._

In the stillness, Dean can feel his legs buckle, but he stands firm, unwilling to let go before his brother. Sam is chocking back sobs, tears his is more than likely shedding over his now missing mother and not their fallen comrade. Understandable, for as much as his brother cares for Cas, thinks of him as a brother, it is the mother he had recovered and lost who is solely on his mind. Of course, Dean also grieves his lost mother, yearns to have her beside him, to hold him in his arms and comfort him in his time of sorrow. But he has faith that he will see her again. She is merely _lost,_ not _gone._ He has every intention of bringing her back from wherever she is, some way, somehow. He can guarantee that. But Cas... no. He isn't. He can't be. Dean refuses to believe the angel is dead. _It's dark. Those are shadows on the ground, nothing to be concerned about._ And then he sees it. There is no denying it now. Faint, to be certain, but most definitely the traces of blackened feathers.

He turns to Sam, as if somehow his brother could give him the confirmation that, indeed, those are shadows on the ground. But the younger Winchester is too caught in his own grief, struggling to maintain composure. They lock eyes briefly before the flicker of lights in the cabin distracts Sam and he slips back into hunter mode. His mother may be gone, his angel friend dead, but there is still Kelly and her now born Nephilim to worry about. It is now that Dean allows himself to grieve, mercifully alone. He needs his privacy. He has felt connected to the angel from the moment he had rescued him from Hell all those years earlier, what the angel had rather creepily referred to as a "profound bond." At first, he had been rightfully uncomfortable by it. "Personal space, Cas," he had reminded his friend on numerous occasions, only for the angel to look at him in complete confusion. But before long, his presence, despite the fact that more than once he had been disturbed by the angel's odd habits, became amusing, and later, comforting. He was familiar, like the warmth of his father's old leather jacket or the grip of the Impala's steering wheel beneath his hands. He was an ally, ready to fight against evil, even if his methods were at times questionable. His fuck ups had been epic, that was certain, but he and Sam had made their own horrible mistakes in the years since their reunion in Palo Alto. And his intentions had always been pure.

He's family.

 _Goddamnit, Cas._ He takes a hesitant step toward him, at first looking skyward, as if for strength, before risking a glance down at Castiel. His face is pale, contorted as if still in agonizing pain, eyes closed. There is no comforting rise and fall of his chest, no subtle fluttering beneath the eyelids. Dean has seen death on more occasions than he would care to remember; there is no denying that it has set its claim on the angel. He feels his legs finally give way beneath him as he collapses to the ground, tears streaming along his cheeks. He wants to say something, _anything,_ but can only stare at the shell lying before him. What can he possibly say at the moment? A broken sob escapes from beneath his throat and Dean buries his face in his hands, crying softly. He weeps as Sam returns from the cabin, silent tears leaking from hazel eyes, and gently places a hand on his shoulder; Dean does not register the touch, and eventually Sam leaves him be. Pyres need to built, and he knows that his brother will not be able to. And when the all too familiar flames once again dance and crackle in the night sky, Dean is not there to watch. His eyes are dry when he turns his back on his friend, heads inside, and rummages around the cabin until at last he finds a bottle of Captain Morgan. Not his drink of choice, but he twists the cap and downs a quarter of the bottle in a few swallows. He downs most of the bottle before at last collapsing on the sofa, reeking of rum and sweat. And for a few hours, in blissful ignorance, he forgets. About his missing mother, the birth of the fucking Antichrist... he forgets about Cas.

It is there, as dawn brightens the night sky and the last embers of the funeral pyre die away, that Sam finds his brother. He gently covers his brother with an old afghan, considers dumping the remaining rum down the drain before swallowing a generous mouthful. Wordlessly, he gathers a blanket of his own and settles on the floor at his brother's feet. In moments, he falls into a dreamless sleep, where he, too, escapes.


End file.
